


When the Wolfbane Blooms

by a_fearsome_thing



Category: Voltron - Fandom, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Space Wolves, Voltron General Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_fearsome_thing/pseuds/a_fearsome_thing
Summary: Shiro never makes it back to Earth, instead crash-landing on a planet filled with what seem to be giant wolves. Injured and without a ship, he needs to find a way home to warn the Earth that the Galra are coming.(the one where Shiro gets adopted by a wolf pack in space)





	When the Wolfbane Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So this is my submission for the Voltron General Big Bang, and man oh man, has it been a lot of work. Don't sign up for 2 big bangs right as you start a new job. 
> 
> Shoutout to [Crazyjigeons](crazyjigeons.tumblr.com), who was my artist for the Bang and had to deal with me popping into their messages last minute about how a deadline was that day, oh crap, sorry. Go check out their [art](http://crazyjigeons.tumblr.com/post/164150878503/ct-can-draw-whoa-boy-rushing-home-to-get-these), because oh holy cowabunga this is so amazing, words cannot describe how much I love their art, and how good it is, and everything spectacular about it. 
> 
> Also shoutout to Marissol, who will never see this, but who encouraged me and insulted me and read things for me. There's nothing like a true friend to call you an idiot. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The pod shoots away from the prison ship and Shiro emerges from the haze of unreality that has encapsulated the last…however long it’s been. He stands, dazed and lightheaded, in the middle of the shuttle, staring uncomprehendingly at the rapidly shrinking ship behind him.

He escaped.

He’s free.

Ulaz freed him.

The shock at his change in situation combines with the drugs in his system to send his head spinning and the ship lurching beneath his feet. He can’t dismiss it as mechanical error—it’s all his own unsteadiness, and he needs to get a grip on it if he wants to stay free. He rests a stabilizing hand against the wall and orients himself to face the bow of the ship. That’s where the navigational system will be.

His legs don’t want to support him, and he stumbles forwards on buckling knees to get to the console. There’s a breathless moment where he almost falls, but he catches hold of the control board at the last minute and manages to avoid hitting the floor, panting at the exertion of that small trip. He gathers all the ragged, exhausted edges of himself together to clear his head so he can pilot this ship home.

He’s going _home_.

A burst of adrenaline floods through his veins, keeping him on his feet and dissipating the mental fog enough to examine the pod’s controls. His heart, riding high on images of home, freefalls heavily into his gut.

The laser blasts the drones had fired as Shiro escaped into the pod may have missed him, but they nailed the ship’s console. It’s a wreck, a wisp of smoke rising from the center as it sparks around the holes left behind. He waves away what smoke he can and stares at the mess as it’s revealed, hesitating over the damage.

Shiro’s a pilot, not an engineer. He can perform basic maintenance and simple fixes, but this is an alien ship and it has laser holes in it.

His eyes fall closed, unable to face the reality of the situation, and he lets the wave of despair wash through him, before determination follows in its wake and pushes it out. Earth needs him _now_. He can’t give up.

Shiro snaps his eyes open and studies the control board, brows furrowed. He analyzes each part of the console, cataloging what has been damaged so he can work around it. Sparks fly across his occasionally blurring vision, the light stabbing through his aching head.

It’s so hard to focus.

He puts a hand to his temple and shakes his head once, sharply, like that will rattle the pain and remaining drugs loose. It doesn’t help much. Just another thing to work around.

Alright.

The final diagnosis of the ship is better than the damage would suggest. Shiro won’t have much in the way of landing gear, but the heat shield is intact. The manual steering is functional, but the guidance system is almost completely blown—he won’t be able to locate where he is in relation to Earth or plot a course based on that.

He can fly, though, and that’s a start.

His experimental tapping on the unknown panels yields success when a star map blinks to life, flickering in and out, and Shiro’s heart leaps into his throat. He scrambles to plug in the coordinates he’d memorized for Earth before logic kicks in and he erases them, inputting sector YX9 instead—that’s what the Galra had called Kerberos when Shiro was first captured.

He can find his way home from Kerberos.

He enters the last number and the screen goes dark. Shiro breathlessly taps the panel again, but nothing responds. There’s no indication that the navigation took hold of the coordinates before the display failed as the pod drifts along its same trajectory.

A flicker. The ship turns and flies in a new direction. Shiro’s head goes light.

He might make it.

Relief sends him sinking to his knees, and he leans forward to rest his head on the console and cries.

It doesn’t feel _real_. He can’t bring himself to believe it’s real, but he also can’t stop the tears from pouring down his face. He sobs with his whole body, cries ripping out of his chest, and when he finally stops, he’s dizzy from it—from the tears, the emotions, the drugs. All of it.

He falls to the side, twisting so he ends up sitting propped against the bulwark. And he breathes.

He needs to get up and pilot the ship—no way can he trust autopilot on a failing navigational system—but for now he just…sits. He gathers the pieces of himself that feel like they’re slipping out of control and struggles to process everything beyond the miracle of his escape.

A Galra soldier helped him, one that’s a spy for a rebel group. Or is he acting alone and wants Shiro to start a rebellion? Is the Blade of Marmora a weapon? What is Voltron? What does a lion have to do with anything?

Nothing makes sense, and whatever control Shiro established spins quietly out of his grasp. He narrows his focus to the one thing he knows for sure: the Galra are heading for Earth and he has to find a way to stop them.

It gives him a purpose, and that gives him an anchor.

Shiro takes a deep breath in and slowly lets it out. First things first, he has to make it home. He tilts his head back to thud gently against metal and centers himself, drawing strength into his legs so they won’t buckle when he stands.

Steady is beyond his ability, so he pushes heavily to his feet and grips the console like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. Why don’t the Galra have any chairs in their ships? He’s never going to make it to Earth like this.

He powers through anyway. He’ll stand for as long as he can. He glances around absently—maybe the ship has some sort of timer he can use to make sure he keeps awake and does regular checks of his progress.

He has no idea where he is in relation to Earth, nor how fast this pod can travel. He has no idea how long of a trip he’s in for, but Shiro piloted Persephone to Kerberos as the sole pilot—he can make it back.

For all his determination, it’s difficult to maintain his drive as the adrenaline fades. His eyelids grow heavy, and he nearly falls more than once. In desperation, he finds something that honks periodically and doesn’t seem to affect the ship’s course, and he sets it up so he can risk dozing, drifting off to wake with every honk of the console.

It becomes a routine. Sleep. Wake. Check the course. Adjust if necessary. Try to pull up the map to check his destination. Sleep.

He’s barely settled into another nap after a dozen of the cycles when he jerks awake, heart stuttering and eyes wide. It’s like he’s been struck by lightning, the way his heart races. 

He shoots to his feet, spinning to make sure he _hasn’t_ been electrocuted, and catches sight of a planet through the viewport as the ship passes it. It’s circular and blue and reminds him somewhat of Earth, and he can’t look away.

It’s not Earth, but he has the strongest urge to turn the shuttle and land.

It’s a dangerous urge, and Shiro pulls back from it, literally stepping away from the console even as all his instincts scream at him. He can’t stops staring until long after it’s gone from view and he’s pulled from his trance by a jarring _honk_.

He tears his gaze away from the window and shakes his head as if he’s been underwater, berating himself. He can’t go haring off to random planets—he needs to get home and warn them of the attack.

Purpose firmly back in mind, Shiro pushes away the growing discomfort of his hunger and thirst, and his need to find a bathroom. He’ll hold off as long as he can before he makes the pod more uncomfortable and unhygienic than it needs to be.

Hopefully, he’s almost there.

The next few sleep-wake cycles are filled with growing distress until Shiro can’t pretend to doze anymore. He climbs to his feet, now lightheaded from dehydration, and taps the console to check the system. The map doesn’t spring to life, but there is an answering beep that tells him he’s approaching his destination.

His heart leaps, gaze flying to the view port, and he desperately searches the space before him for familiar constellations. He finds none. He clenches his eyes shut and tightens his jaw. He has to be close to Kerberos. He’s at the coordinates. He’s almost home.

He opens his eyes again to millions of unfamiliar stars.

Despair strikes hard and fast, weighing him down like a cannonball in water. Tears blur his vision and he lies to himself. He’s forgotten. He’s not recognizing the constellations because of the angle of approach. If he flies just a little longer, he’ll see Earth.

The tears fall.

He’s lost in space while the Galra prepare to attack Earth, and he can do nothing about it.  

Shiro allows himself to drown for another few seconds before he forces his back straight and checks the console. There’s nothing for it but to keep trying. Now he needs to find a habitable planet where he can find food, water, and fuel.

He refuses to die drifting through space like this.

Taking manual control of the ship, Shiro taps on some of the safer looking buttons, hoping to find readings or _something_ on the nearby planets. It’s all in Galra, and he recognizes nothing beyond a few numbers and letters.

He lets out a growl and slams his fist down on the control panel. His right hand dents the metal, causing the screen to flash red and fade. His lungs seize in his chest.

“No no no no no,” he mutters as he pushes buttons at a frantic pace, hoping _anything_ will respond. There’s not even a flicker. “No!”

He can’t pull up the manual controls.

Shiro hangs his head and clenches his fists on the useless hunk of metal before him. So that’s it. He’s going to drift through the void of space until he dies of dehydration, the shuttle runs out of oxygen, or he gets trapped in a planet’s gravitational pull and crashes to the surface.

At least the last one would be fast. His throat closes up and he flattens his palms against the surface of the console, pressing into it as if it could absorb him into its mainframe.

There’s a beep.

Shiro’s widen as his breath catches, but he can’t look up and be disappointed. He stares straight down at the ground while his heart beats a staccato in his ears.

It beeps again.

His gaze flies up to find that the manual controls are back online, but he has no idea when they’ll give out again. He grabs them and turns the shuttle until a planet covered slides into view, and he flies straight for it.

Better to take his chances on a planet than drift through the emptiness of space.

The screen flashes red but holds, and his new destination grows to fill the view port as he approaches, all green with hints of blue and purple. The shuttle shakes as he strikes atmosphere, Shiro’s teeth chattering together in time with its vibrations as it plummets to the surface. He jabs at the thrusters, trying to reverse them, to do anything to slow the ship as it struggles to maintain its heat shield.

If he slows at all, he can’t tell, and Shiro braces himself for impact. This is going to hurt.

The shuttle slams into the ground at less than terminal velocity, throwing Shiro clear across the cabin. He cries out in pain as his shoulder strikes the wall and gives with a _pop_ , his leg crumbling beneath him when he hits the ground.

He’s dazed and injured, but he’s alive.

He lets out a laugh that sounds like a sob and remains where he is, sprawled out on the floor. Right now, there’s a dull suggestion of pain and as soon as he moves…he’s going to feel it. He keeps his eyes closed and jaw clenched, and breathes deeply through his nose, in and out. Even, measured breaths.

In.

And out.

He can’t stay here, though. He’s on an alien planet, and his entrance wasn’t subtle—something is going to come investigating, and Shiro needs to have a full bearing on his situation when that happens. He steels himself as much as he can and lifts his head, opening his eyes to promptly slam them shut at the sight of his leg.

There is no way he could have prepared for that. His leg is not supposed to bend that way.

A whimper escapes, and he thuds his head back to the ground. Deep breaths.

Shiro pushes his emotions away and ignores the buzzing in his head. Now is _not_ the time to be overwhelmed.

Opening his eyes again, he does his best to clinically assess the situation. He’s lying pressed against the wall of the crashed shuttle on his right side, and his left shoulder is in agony. He can’t seem to raise it high enough to touch his opposite shoulder—a dislocation, most likely. His head hurts, but he’s thinking clearly and he’s—unfortunately—conscious.

Moving down his body, Shiro finds he was overall fairly lucky to escape as unscathed as he did. His left leg, though…it’s going to be trouble. There’s a bulge below his knee that’s not meant to be there, but there’s no blood on the surrounding fabric and his toes wiggle when he tries to move them, so it could be worse.

Claws rake down the door with a horrible screech.

Shiro lifts his head and stares at the door, unable to believe his luck and waiting for the sound to come again. It doesn’t disappoint him, a rhythm of three scratches followed by a pause starting up at the entranceway.

_Scritch scritch scritch_.

Shiro’s heart rate rises steadily, and he hauls himself as close to upright as he can get, whimpering the whole way. He barely notices when the scratching stops through the white noise of his agony, but he manages to pull to a slump, supported more by the wall than his own strength and panting heavily.

He can’t make it to his feet.

The quiet registers as the ringing fades from his ears, and it sends his heart thundering. A grim expression settles onto his face, and the door is torn clean open with the sound of crushing metal and grating steel. Sunlight pours in, blinding, and silhouettes the figures in the entrance so Shiro can’t make out details other than that there are three distinct, massive forms paused in the opening, snuffling at the air.

(art by: [crazyjigeons](http://crazyjigeons.tumblr.com/post/164150878503/ct-can-draw-whoa-boy-rushing-home-to-get-these))

He must have hit his head harder than he thought, because he would swear they are wolves. He didn’t make it back to Earth, but he’s still going to be killed by the biggest wolves he’s ever seen.

One steps forward, head rising as it sniffs at him and Shiro presses back further into the wall. Intelligent golden eyes assess him as he stares back, jaw clenched. It _is_ a wolf. It’s covered in deep black fur and it’s a wolf. He struggles to fathom what that means.

The wolf pads closer and Shiro lifts his right arm in automatic defense, the limb trembling as he holds it aloft. The metal gives the wolf pause, and Shiro would swear that it is surprised.

It takes another step forward. Shiro’s heart seizes in fear and his arm lights up, a shivering purple glow between them. Exhaustion slams into him, racing from the tips of his fingers up to his shoulder and blossoming across his body. His choked cry of surprise drowns out the wolf’s growl.

He can’t maintain the light even in the face of teeth and raised hackles, and he slumps back, hand falling into his lap.

The wolf continues to snarl, its muscles shifting as it prepares to attack. Shiro flinches but can’t manage much else.

“Please,” he cracks out through a dry throat, “help.”

The big black wolf in front of him doesn’t react besides a flick of its ears forward, but it also doesn’t attack. Behind it, one of the smaller wolves that lingers in the opening picks its head up, nose rising as it sniffs carefully, and then it lets out a yip, its tail wagging once as it draws the attention of the other two.

A series of yips and barks follows, and Shiro watches with wide eyes as the closest wolf stops snarling and lowers its hackles, cocking its head to the side in consideration. The smaller one goes quiet before turning and leaving the shuttle.

Never taking their eyes off of Shiro, the two remaining wolves back away and follow the first one out.

What…just happened? Shiro stares at the now empty doorway, jaw slack. What happens now? The rapid withdrawal of imminent death and its accompanying terror leaves him reeling.

The wolves are still nearby, barking and yipping back and forth in apparent conversation. Shiro briefly considers trying to stand but even shifting makes his breath catch in pain, so he dismisses the idea.

It goes quiet outside, but Shiro doesn’t have to wait long before someone appears in the doorway. It’s not the wolves.

The figure is _human_. He’s naked with skin the color of terracotta and thick black hair that falls past his shoulders, about as tall as Keith, if Shiro were able to stand.

What’s most startling, though, is the recognition and excitement that lights up the man’s expression as a smile splits his face and his amber eyes glitter. It takes a minute for Shiro to notice the scar—it stretches from the outside corner of his left eye, angles across his nose, and cuts through his smile on the right side of his mouth.

“Shiro,” he says, and Shiro’s mind goes blank. How does he know Shiro’s name? What the _hell_ is happening?

The smile dims but the man comes closer, undaunted. He crouches down and reaches out a hand, palm up, towards Shiro.

Shiro stares at it, brows furrowing.

“Champion?” he tries and Shiro’s eyes fly back to his face, wide and uncomprehending. That was Japanese. First he knows Shiro’s name, and now he’s speaking Japanese, calling Shiro Champion like he knows him.

It’s too much. Shiro’s body simply can’t handle the shocks it’s been through, and his breathing speeds up as his heart beats a staccato in his chest, the world greying at the edges.

“Shiro!” the stranger says, alarmed, and Shiro passes out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Shiro wakes slowly at first, blinking his eyes open and careening into wakefulness as he realizes that where he is now is not where he was before. He tenses as he processes the situation, and his shoulder responds with a dull ache, drawing his wide eyed attention.

That should have been much more painful.

His shoulder is wrapped in a strange bandage, and the rest of his skin is bared except for where he’s covered in a soft and mossy green blanket from his chest down. He shifts his arms and legs subtly, and while he’s not restrained, panic shivers down his spine as his left leg responds but it was broken before he passed out and _now it is heavier than the right._ He grasps the blanket—which is real moss—and rips it away, gasping in relief when he’s met with an expanse of pale skin and scars.

His legs are both there, and they’re both his. His left leg is bound from mid-calf to mid-thigh in the same style of bandaging that binds his shoulder, but it’s still there. It’s his leg.

The lightheadedness returns as relief drains the adrenaline out of him, and he slumps back onto the bed only to tense again at the unfamiliar, uneven ground digging into his back.

He doesn’t know where he is. He’s being careless.

Anger at himself lends him a narrow-eyed focus, and Shiro looks beyond his own condition with a critical eye, examining the moss that both blankets him and acts as a cushion between him and the hard dirt floor. Stone walls arch high around him and converge above to form a roof, and while he can’t see the entrance, he can’t be too far from it because he has no other light source aside from the sunlight peaking around a large boulder.

It’s effectively hiding the way out, and Shiro wonders if it’s for privacy or ease of containment.

Before Shiro can test his current physical limits, the same man from earlier appears around the boulder, face breaking into a smile when he sees Shiro.

“Shiro!” He bounds forward, and Shiro flinches back, curling towards the solid wall behind him and scrambling to sit. He’s naked and weak and far too vulnerable like this, even if the other man is naked, too.

The man freezes before Shiro can light up his arm and droops ever so slightly, shoulders hunching and smile slipping off his face. Shiro has no idea what to make of it.

“I thought it was your state of injury that prevented you from remembering me,” the man says, a slight whine slipping into his forlorn tone. He’s young—or younger than Shiro, at least. “You truly do not know me, do you, Champion?”

“Why are you calling me that?” Shiro blurts out, startling the young man, who cocks his head to the side and crouches, one hand reaching down for balance. He looks more comfortable closer to the ground.

“Do you not know who _you_ are?”

Shiro straightens his posture and leans subtly against the wall, left arm cradled in his lap as the exertion of remaining upright leaches his strength. He’s not sure the other man actually knows him, but he called Shiro by name, now and earlier in the pod. He’d called him champion then, too.

Shiro shakes his head, “I know who I am. How do you know me? Why did you call me champion?”

The other man frowns. “I am Na’wal. We were prisoners of the Galra together,” Na’wal hesitates, tracing the scar on the side of his nose in uncertain deliberation before he comes to a decision and reveals, “You helped me to escape.”

Shiro stares. “I…what?” He furrows his brow. How could he have helped someone else escape? Why hadn’t he escaped with them?

Na’wal opens his mouth, hopefully to explain, but is cut off before he can begin by a woman’s voice barking out, “Na’wal! from the front of the cave. Na’wal’s head perks up before his shoulders hunch towards his ears and a sheepish grin overtakes his face.

“Mama,” he explains to Shiro in a hushed tone, tossing a glance at the rock, “I was supposed to tell them if you had awakened.”

Shiro nods, confused, tense, and wary, and watches as Na’wal rises and goes to greet his mother.

“Mama!” he calls, springing forward to meet her at the rock, “He is awake, but there is a problem with his memory.”

A curl of anxiety furls around his heart at the revealed weakness, and Shiro is torn between pulling the blanket up higher to hide more of his body and ripping it off entirely to allow unencumbered movement. He doesn’t hear the reply from Na’wal’s mother, but Na’wal quickly returns with two figures in his wake.

Shiro’s face flames and his eyes fly to the floor, the ceiling, back to the figures and away again. They’re both women, and they’re both naked. Shiro doesn’t know where to look. He wants to keep them in his sight in case they attack, but he was not expecting so much nudity.

He clenches his jaw and determinedly meets their eyes.

They look back with varying degrees of bewilderment, amusement, and concern.

“Are humans meant to be that color?” the smaller woman asks, hurrying closer and kneeling at his side. She reaches a hand out towards him. “He was not this color when you first brought him here.” Her voice rises in excitement, “Can they change as well?”

Shiro pulls back from her touch, thrown off by her sudden proximity and excitement, and the woman pauses and lets her hand hang in the air before dropping it back to her lap. She tilts her head to the side and studies him. She is a tall woman with rosy tan skin, a rounder face, and long, straight black and silver hair. Even kneeling before him, she is all lean, wiry power.

Na’wal laughs, “No, Ma, they do not change.”

He drops to sit beside her and Shiro, while the other woman remains standing imperiously over them all. She is taller than both Na’wal and the woman Na’wal called “Ma”. She might be taller than Shiro, if he were to stand. Her mouth is set in a severe line, and her thick black hair forms a curly mane around her pale white shoulders. She stares down at him and her piercing golden gaze is familiar.

Her presence is commanding, and Shiro pushes off the wall to sit straight of his own accord, shoulders pulled back and head high.

The woman beside him huffs. “Sit _down_ , Auvergne. He is not going to attack us. He saved Na’wal.” She bestows another bright smile upon him, expression so inexplicably fond that Shiro flushes. Discomfort squirms in his gut at receiving credit for something he can’t remember. “You may call me Natalis, and this,” she gestures to the tall woman fluidly seating herself beside them, “is my mate, Auvergne. We are the head of our pack, and we are who found you in the Galra wreckage.”

There’s a question implied in the way she says it, inviting but not demanding an explanation. Auvergne’s narrowed eyes suggest she would prefer a more direct interrogation while Na’wal watches with open curiosity.

“Thank you for saving me,” Shiro says instead of answering the unspoken question. Despite his instinct to trust them, he would implicate others if he revealed too much about his escape to someone friendly to Zarkon. He can’t put Ulaz in danger by being careless. “I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you. I thought those wolves were going to kill me.”

The three exchange startles looks before Natalis gently rests a hand on Shiro’s knee and leans forward, “Dearheart, we _are_ the wolves.”

The caring touch and pet name surprise Shiro so much that he doesn’t register the rest of the sentence until he catches Auvergne’s knowing look and it clicks.

She was the large black wolf.

Na’wal was the smaller wolf that drew the others out of the ship—when he recognized Shiro. Which means Natalis was the silver and grey wolf that had stood to the side.

Head of their pack, do humans change…Shiro considers the likelihood of a concussion to excuse not putting it together sooner.

Natalis smiles kindly at him.

“Well,” he says sheepishly, “I was still in pretty bad shape even if you weren’t going to attack me. So thank you.”

“I was considering it,” Auvergne comments, her expression bland but her gaze shrewd, “but Na’wal convinced us otherwise.”

A laugh bursts out of Shiro’s chest before he can rein it in, but he can’t tell if she is serious or not. A little of both, most likely. The sharp smile of approval she shoots him seems to agree.

Natalis slaps Auvergne’s arm but doesn’t refute her statement.

“After you helped to save our son from the Galra, it was the least we could do,” she says with that same gentle smile before her face goes stern. “Now,” and her tone brings Shiro back to his childhood, when his mother would lay down the law. It apparently _is_ a universal tone, “I imagine you were not aiming to end up here in that Galra ship, however you managed to obtain it. However, you are here now, and you are not going anywhere until you are fully healed.”

Shiro protests, “I have to get back to Earth. You’re right—I didn’t mean to end up here. My navigation panel was damaged in my escape, but I have to go home as soon as I can.”

Natalis and Auvergne share a look Shiro can’t interpret, and Na’wal presses closer to his side, eyes sad. Shiro shakes his head—they don’t understand it’s not for his own sake that he has to hurry.

“I need to warn them they’re in danger,” he tries to explain, and Auvergne reaches out to briefly place a hand on his knee. He blinks in surprise.

“You are not going anywhere with that pod in the shape that it is,” she points out, “Nor in the shape you are in.”

Natalis cuts off his protests before he can make them and offers, “Bisclavret and I will look at the pod once she has returned. Hopefully, the repairs will be simple enough.” The odds aren’t great, considering what shape the ship was in _before_ Shiro crash-landed it onto the surface of an alien planet, but it’s the best he’s going to get.

“Thank you. As long as it’s capable of intergalactic travel, I’ll find a way to make do. I don’t want to burden you for too long, and the Galra are going to come after me eventually.”

Auvergne and Natalis stare at him for a long moment of silence, before Auvergne breaks it by patting his knee again and Natalis rests a hand on his shoulder. He has the embarrassing urge to press into the touch.

“Rest. _Heal_ ,” she commands, and the two woman gracefully flow to their feet in a manner that defies the idea that this isn’t their usual form. “We will find a way to get you home, Dearheart.”

With that promise, they go, leaving Shiro alone with Na’wal again. Fatigue is crashing back down around his ears, reminding him that he was seriously injured not long ago.

He slumps back against the wall, and Na’wal shifts to lean back next to him.

They sit together, not speaking, until Na’wal lets out a sigh and tilts his head towards Shiro, unable to meet his eyes. He speaks softly, slowly, like he’s reluctant to voice the question but has to know the answer, “You truly do not remember me?”

Shiro’s heart pangs at the sorrow weighing down the words. He shakes his head and says with honest regret, “I don’t. I don’t remember much of my time with the Galra.” He frowns. That’s something he’s going to have to address. At least this seems like a relatively nice place to start. He looks back at Na’wal and invites, “Tell me?”

Na’wal’s smile is blinding. He leans forward and weaves the tale with his hands, describing how he had been captured by the Galra on another planet long ago, how he and Shiro had been placed in the same cell, how they became friends.

Shiro sits quietly and listens to the story. To their story. At times, dim purples flash across his vision and the ghost of warm fur brushes his side, but when he chases after the memories, they fade away as if they were made of mist.

He drifts off to the sound of Na’wal’s soft murmur beside him, and he’s hovering on the edge of sleep when Na’wal stops talking. His warm presence disappears, and Shiro frowns at the cool air that replaces him, but then he’s back, soft warmth pressed along his side.

Shiro sinks his hand into thick fur and falls asleep.

(art by: [crazyjigeons](http://crazyjigeons.tumblr.com/post/164150878503/ct-can-draw-whoa-boy-rushing-home-to-get-these))

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Shiro wakes a few times during the night, but each time he quickly falls back to sleep and barely remembers them when he fully awakes the next morning.

It’s the best sleep he’s gotten in as long as he can remember, which admittedly doesn’t mean much right now.

Still, when morning comes, he wakes up gradually. There’s a soft warmth that he’s wrapped himself around in the night, and he rubs his face into it in dull awareness. His back and neck are stiff from the position he’s fallen into, and he knows when he moves it’s going to hurt. His hand twitches in front of his face, and the smell and feel kick him into a vivid sense memory, curled up with his dog in a patch of sunlight on the floor of his childhood home.

It’s a good memory.

His pillow rises and falls with each snuffling breath that Legs takes beneath Shiro’s cheek, bringing the memory to life. Shiro smiles until the surface underneath him moves and he jerks away and awake all at once, falling backwards with wide eyes and fast breaths.

The cave falls together in pieces: the stone walls and floor, the warm yellow light stretching out to shine on the wall next to him, the disgruntled wolf he woke up when he threw himself off of him.

Na’wal. He woke up Na’wal.

Shiro runs a hand across his face and croaks out, “Sorry,” coughing to clear the morning rasp out of his voice.

Na’wal yawns at him, displaying an impressive array of threateningly long teeth, and lets out a series of sounds that must be speech but which leave Shiro staring blankly.

Na’wal huffs in annoyance, the message understandable even with a language barrier, and climbs to his feet, stretching before he _shifts,_ joints cracking and popping as his fur ripples and smooths and leaves behind a disgruntled young man. It’s both fascinating and a little disgusting. It looks like it hurts.

“I _said_ ,” Na’wal grunts, letting out another yawn and following it up with a smile, “that it is no worry. I, too, have memory-dreams and often forget I am home if my pack is not around.” Guilt blossoms as the empty cave takes on new meaning. Did he kick them out of their home? “Besides, Mama would have had me up much earlier if you were not sleeping on me. I should thank you.”

He grins broadly, teasing, and stands on wobbly legs before he finds his feet. He crosses the cave in a few short strides to a bundle of some kind of cloth, bending down to sort through it. Holding up various items of clothing, Na’wal chatters as he sorts them into one pile or another.

“Moeris and Bisclavret returned last night while you slept. They visited one of the nearby embassies and found some supplies for you. Humans are similar to Alteans, and their clothing should fit you. And—aha!” His cheer is like a yip, and Shiro grins despite his confusion. It melts off his face as Na’wal victoriously holds up what looks like a shock collar, and Shiro shrinks back.

Betrayal flickers through his heart, but it can do no more than stab before Na’wal snaps the collar around his own neck and adjusts it so it hangs loose around his collarbones. He shifts back into a wolf like he’s slipping into well-worn leather, a transition more seamless than that to human.

Na’wal shoots a wolf-smile at him and _speaks_ , the sound coming flawlessly from the collar, “Now we can talk and I do not have to be so…fragile.”

Shiro laughs. Considering he’s sitting wrapped in moss with bandages around two bad injuries, he can’t refute that claim. He _does_ feel guilty for doubting Na’wal and his pack—they’ve been nothing but kind to him. They didn’t have to help him, especially as weak and injured as he’d been when they found him.

Na’wal doesn’t let him brood for long, trotting over and dropping a pile of clothes in his lap. He sits and wags his tail expectantly at Shiro, looking with pointed attention at the clothing. Shiro raises an eyebrow but dutifully investigates, pulling up individual pieces.

These Alteans were very humanoid, at least based on their clothes. They like their layers.

Eventually, Shiro finds a pair of black pants that he manages to get on over the bulky bandage on his leg and black boots he can only where one of. His upper half takes longer to dress, mostly because he keeps finding an absurd number of capes.

His shoulder, to his surprise, doesn’t give him any trouble. It hasn’t bothered him since waking, but he’s been favoring it because he expects pain. As he puts it through its paces, rotating and stretching it, there’s no discomfort at all.

Those bandages are magic.

Comfortable with his range of motion, Shiro pulls on the shirts he’s found that might fit him. He ends up wearing three—or rather, two shirts and an overtunic. First there’s a tight, long-sleeved black shirt that immediately settles the uneasy hyperawareness that comes from being naked and vulnerable. He fixes the sleeve so it can accommodate his Galra arm, and it hugs his body like a second skin.

Next is a short-sleeve grey shirt with sleeves that are edged boldly in white and fall to his elbows. Over it all goes a high-collared, tri-colored tunic with broad, flared shoulders and a wide, white stylized V dividing the dark grey top from the black bottom.

He wraps a thick belt around his waist and attaches a pouch to the side to make up for the lack of pockets.

Na’wal watches the whole process with an amused glimmer in his eyes, but he holds in his teasing, waiting patiently instead. When Shiro is dressed, he stands and wags his tail.

“Are you hungry?”

Shiro doesn’t experience hunger anymore, but when was the last time he’d had something to eat? It’s impossible to know.

“I think I am,” he says in wonder.

“Good. Wait here.” Na’wal bounds across the room and around the boulder before trotting back with a large rod that he drops into Shiro’s lap, “Come. Let us get food.”

The stick Na’wal gave him is t-shaped on one end, smooth and rounded, while the other end is blunted. It’s like a crutch on Earth, and judging from the length, it will rest at the perfect height when Shiro stands.

“Thanks, Na’wal,” he says, running his hand along the smooth surface and sparing a smile for the wolf-alien. Na’wal thumps his tail in response. “Alright, let’s go.”

He levers himself to his feet with the crutch, moving slowly so he can get his right leg under him. He grits his teeth as his left leg wakes up and protests, but he lurches through the discomfort to stand.

It’s a mistake.

His vision goes black and the world slips sideways. He pitches forward and overcorrects his balance, falling back into the cave wall and scratching his right hand open. He puts his left leg down hard in an effort to keep upright but only manages to send a lightning flash of pain through him that makes his leg buckle, falling to the ground.

When the ringing in his ears stops and the spots fade from his eyes, Shiro finds himself curled up clutching his injured leg as Na’wal whines softly next to him, ears flattened back against his head and cold nose nudging his cheek.

“I’m ok,” Shiro breathes, “Just stood up a little too fast.” The more likely cause is dehydration, but Na’wal doesn’t need to worry. “I can try again. Give me a minute.”

“Or perhaps you should remain there,” says a dry voice from the entrance of the cave. Shiro and Na’wal look over in unison, Shiro’s face going pink while Na’wal’s tail gives a brief wag, “as you are injured and should not be moving.”

Auvergne stands there, of course, expression wry with a large bowl under one arm and a goblet in her other hand. A younger woman is beside her, laughing into her hand, her own bowl under her free arm. She’s tall and white with silver hair and electric blue eyes.

She is also clearly unimpressed by Shiro.

Auvergne shakes her head at Na’wal and Shiro and walks over, kneeling down beside them to hand him the goblet. He accepts it gratefully, trying to drink slowly but once the cool water hits his throat, he can’t stop from draining it in seconds. Auvergne offers him the bowl, and Shiro refills his cup, drinking again but slowly this time.

“This is my daughter, Bisclavret,” she introduces, beckoning the young woman over. Shiro is adjusting to so much nudity. “She is the oldest.”

Bisclavret glides over with all the self-contained power of her mother, sitting down and eyeing Shiro like she finds him lacking, even if he’s now conscious and mostly capable of standing.

She doesn’t say anything, simply offering him the bowl in her hands. He accepts it with a smile until the smell hits.

The bowl is filled with raw meat, and the scent of it summons dark claws at the edges of Shiro’s memory. He holds the bowl away from himself, twists to the side, and vomits.

It’s only bile and water, but the acid lingers in his throat and burns in his nostrils.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Someone takes the bowl from him and the smell—and his nausea with it—fades. When he drags his eyes open, Bisclavret is standing across the cave, holding the bowl with a disgusted look on her face.

Shiro looks away, shame curdling in his uneasy gut, and catches sight of Auvergne’s frown.

“Humans eat meat that is cooked,” Na’wal says, sitting staunchly by Shiro’s side.

Bisclavret’s brows furrow before she nods and ducks out of the cave.

Heat burns on the back of Shiro’s neck, but neither Na’wal nor Auvergne say anything at all. Silently, Auvergne hands him a full goblet of water, and Na’wal presses closer into his side.

“Thank you,” Shiro murmurs, the fresh water washing the sharp acid from his mouth. He doesn’t want to talk about his reaction and he appreciates them not questioning it.

Na’wal probably already knows, maybe better than Shiro does. The raw meat triggers some sense memory of his imprisonment, and Shiro would rather not dig too deeply with others around.

“Come, Shiro,” Na’wal says, nudging his nose against Shiro’s knee, “let us move away from this smell and get sustenance.”

Shiro nods and shifts to push himself up, startling when a hand grabs onto the one he’s wrapped around the crutch. Auvergne crouches in front of him, her touch gentle.

“We will help you,” she says, pulling him up to his feet and sliding under his left arm, her own arm looped around his waist and supporting his weight. She’s close to his height and fits neatly under his shoulder, providing the perfect balance. Na’wal stands at his other side, big enough in his wolf form that he can brace Shiro comfortably as they walk.

Between the three of them, Shiro doesn’t need the crutch. It’s an awkward 7-legged walk, but they make it out of the cave into the bright sunlight. Auvergne and Na’wal help him over to a boulder at the mouth, and he perches on it to wait for Bisclavret to return.

Shiro can hear the crackle of a fire a short ways away, and he decides not to question why alien wolves would need to know how to make a fire.

Instead, he faces the planet he’s stranded on for now, and his heart pangs in his chest.

It’s like being back on Earth. The cave opens up to a gentle slope that ends at a burbling stream flowing by from its left side. The water twists a dazzling blue across a field of long yellow and purple grass until it disappears into the forest crowding the right side of the meadow back towards the cave. There’s a vague impression of mountains smudged indigo onto the horizon, and the sky is blue and clear and cloudless.

Shiro tilts his face up to the sun on instinct, the light of its rays warming his face. His eyelids drift to half-mast, and he catches a ripple rushing across the grass, moving steadily towards them. His eyes snap open and his muscles tense as it reaches the end of the field and—nothing.

Realization strikes a moment before the gentle breeze brushes across his skin like the most loving caress, his hair ruffling back.

It’s over too soon, but a soft smile lingers on his lips as he closes his eyes and wills the sensation to last. After everything he’s done and with everything he still has to do, the simple pleasure of this moment is more than Shiro deserves or has time for, but it’s so peaceful he can’t help but be touched by it.

His chest tightens.

There’s a howl off to their right from not far away, then another, and Na’wal raises his snout to the sky and returns the sound. The message is too complicated or secret for the collar to translate, because there is no corresponding shout from the collar.

Shortly after, two new wolves emerge from the trees, one shimmering silver and grey and the other—the biggest Shiro’s met—is a mix of white, brown, and grey. They trot over, approaching as Bisclavret rounds the side of the cave with a bowl full of now blackened meat. She must have been cooking out of the way so the smoke didn’t blow into their den.

The newcomers give her a look, tilting their heads in unison as she hands the bowl to Shiro, who flushes.

“Thank you,” he says, forcing himself to meet her eyes. She gives him a tight nod in response and turns to meet the newest additions, who shift into humanoid forms as they draw closer.

The grey wolf shakes herself into the form of Natalis, who dusts of her hands and smiles at Shiro. The other is someone new, with dark hair that curls tightly and is weighed down by gravity towards his dusky shoulders.

He’s huge but welcoming instead of intimidating. Maybe Bisclavret inherited all of the intimidation factor.

“What did the council say?” Bisclavret asks, curiosity and impatience coloring her tone.

Natalis shakes her head, “Nothing we did not already expect. But then, we did not have much to report. They are…wary of the possible impact of an alien landing here. There would likely have been a more demanding response had we told them he arrived in a Galra ship.”

Shiro’s brows furrow. He hadn’t ever meant for them to lie for him. He’s going to cause trouble for his pack whether or not the Galra track him, just by being here.

His thoughts must show on his face—or she has some sort of telepathy—because Auvergne gives him a sharp look that causes him to close his mouth with a click before he can suggest…he’s not sure what.

The big man frowns deeply, brows furrowed as he looks from Natalis to Shiro in confusion.

“Ah, yes,” Auvergne says, stepping forward and placing her hand on his shoulder, “Shiro, this is our youngest, Moeris. Would you extend your hand and allow him to grasp it?”

Shiro raises his eyebrows at the odd phrasing, but shake sit off and extends his hand to Moeris with a smile. 

There’s an awkward hesitation as his hand hovers between them, long enough that his fingers start to curl back to his palm. 

Natalis apologizes, “Pardon the confusion, Dearheart, we meant the other hand.”

Something hot and unpleasant curls in Shiro’s gut, but he forces the smile to remain on his face as he pulls his right hand back to himself and tucks it in against his side. Faking a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, he extends his left hand which is soon dwarfed in Moeris’s larger hand.

There’s a moment where neither moves, and then Moeris smiles and reaches his other hand out to firmly pat Shiro’s shoulder, “Well met.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shiro says, because the least he can do is be polite. Moeris releases his hand and sits on the ground by the side of the rock, easily throwing an arm over Na’wal’s neck and pulling him into a headlock.

Na’wal snaps at him playfully and looks up at his family, “There are more translators in the supplies.”

Bisclavret rolls her eyes at him, “Considering Moeris and I packed them, we were aware. Mother was not sure if the human would be conscious enough not to be frightened our natural forms.”

Eventually Shiro will have to stop feeling shame at entirely valid remarks on his weaknesses. For now, he fights the urge to hunch his shoulders, his right hand clenching in his lap. Na’wal yips at her.

“This form is not too bad,” Moeris offers, lifting his hand in front of his face and wiggling his fingers. “Useful,” he adds and runs his tongue over his teeth, “but not very dangerous, is it?”

Na’wal lets out a huff of what Shiro assumes is laughter and moves so he is pressed against Shiro’s knee, “I would not say they cannot be dangerous.”

The group goes quiet, heavy with the weight of memories Shiro doesn't have, although he suspects they involve him. Something happened during their imprisonment that had a lasting effect on Na'wal, and his family knows what it is. Shiro's not sure he ever will. It's unimportant now, in light of their more pressing concerns. 

“Am I causing you trouble by being here?” Shiro asks, voice low.

Auvergne sighs like she knew this was coming and exchanges a glance with Natalis while Bisclavret crosses her arms. Na’wal and Moeris stay silent at his side.

The silence says enough.

“If you have any tools I can use, I can try to repair the shuttle,” Shiro offers. It’s unlikely he’ll be able to make it worthy of intergalactic travel again considering he’s not an engineer and he crashed the already failing ship into the unforgiving surface of the planet, but he can at least try.

Natalis and Auvergne stare at him, eyebrows near their hairline, until Auvergne narrows her eyes, “Do not be ridiculous, Shiro.”

“You are still healing,” Natalis adds, crossing her arms and shifting her weight in a way that let Shiro know he is not going to win this fight. Bisclavret studies him, considering, but says nothing.

“But it sounds like this council doesn’t want me here,” Shiro says anyway—if he backed down from every fight he was sure to lose, he would have died a hundred times over by now. Natalis growls from the back of her throat, and startles Shiro into utter stillness, frozen like a rabbit sighted by a predator.

Auvergne rests a hand on Natalis’s arm, and Natalis takes in Shiro’s reaction and relaxes her shoulders, regret bowing her head. Shiro remains wary but lets go of his tension by degrees.

“The council is cautious,” Auvergne says, “but they will not contest our decision to provide you aid.”

Shiro believes her, but he doesn’t miss that she leaves out what “aid” entails. She meets his suspicious gaze steadily, and her expression is stern but blank. “And if I needed help getting back to Earth?”

It’s no small thing to ask, and it grates at Shiro that he has nothing to offer in return for all they’ve already given him, but Ulaz was clear that Earth is going to be attacked soon, and if the Galra get this lion, the entire universe is doomed.

Shiro has to stop them.

The pack shares another significant look. Natalis approaches him, resting a hand on his shoulder and smiling down at him, comfort radiating off of her, “We will do what we can. For now,” her voice grows firm, “you are to eat and take care. Heal. You will not travel in the condition you are in. Leave the council to us.”

It goes against everything in Shiro to let them handle it while he sits around and is taken care of, but he doesn’t know this planet or their capabilities. He’s more of a liability, a hindrance, than a help.

He’s helpless. A shiver runs through him, and Na’wal rests his head on Shiro’s knee, nudging the bowl resting listlessly in his lap in reminder.

Shiro summons a smile for him and eats, not entirely willing to let the argument go but setting it aside for now. They’re not wrong in saying he has to heal, but even if he’s injured, Shiro is a contender. He’ll make it off this planet and back to Earth. He will.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Much later, the pack has scattered to various locations and Shiro lies in the long grass while Na’wal sits beside him.

They’re hidden from view as Shiro watches the clouds drift by and Na’wal’s ears twitch in the directions of sounds Shiro is unaware of. It would be calming if not for Shiro’s determination to learn exactly what is going on. He stares at the sky, deliberating what subject to broach first.

He has so many questions, but he needs to prioritize and he can’t be selfish.

“The council doesn’t want you to help me, do they?” he asks. Na’wal looks down at him. Shiro doesn’t look back.

“No, they do not. They do not risk travel through space any longer.”

“But then, how…” Shiro jerks his head around to find Na’wal staring at him with his intense amber eyes, and his question trails off before he can ask about Na’wal’s capture by the Galra. A sickening thought hits him.

What if this planet is in league with the Galra? Or do they offer a sacrifice of one of their own to keep the Galra appeased? The words dry up on Shiro’s tongue, fear locking his jaw.

Na’wal lies down beside him, resting his head on Shiro’s leg and keeping his gaze trained on him. Shiro hesitates, then pulls up to a sitting position, resting back on his arms and fighting the urge to bury a hand in the fur around Na’wal’s neck.

“You learned this during our imprisonment together,” Na’wal says, “I will remind you. I was captured on my first venture away from Lycaeon. It was a tradition of our kind long ago—a rite of passage to come of age. We would travel far and wide, and we were respected among all worlds. Then the Galra attacked. We were betrayed, and we fought back. Voltron fell, and our rebellion failed. We were given the option to either stand down or be destroyed like Altea.

“Our council chose to surrender. We were confined to our planet and forbidden from leaving or advancing any further with our technology unless it was for the glory of the Galra Empire.”

Na’wal growls low in the back of his throat in disgust, snarling briefly until the moment passes and he rubs his face on Shiro’s leg. “Not all agree with the restrictions, and some packs allow their members to partake of the ritual, as long as they are not caught. Ma and Mama have always been unconventional in the eyes of the council, and both traveled the stars. They wished us to have the same opportunity.”

He presses his ears back against his head and lets out a whine. Shiro’s hand unconsciously drifts to scratch his ears. “The Galra captured me as I explored the planet Barcelona—“ Shiro twitches at the familiar name, staring down at Na’wal, who takes no notice—“for I had heard they were much  like us but without noses. The Galra mistook me for one of their own, and I lived in fear of the repercussions if they ever realized I was not of Barcelona, or if they found my ship, but Lycaeon has been forgotten by many, including those of the Empire.”

He falls silent, his story told, and Shiro quietly mulls it over. It must have happened a long time ago, for an entire planet to be so fully forgetting if they were so well connected. And it explained why their council was reluctant to help him, and why they would be wary to know he came in a Galra ship.

Shiro could be dragging them back into a war they had pulled themselves out of centuries ago, just by being here. Guilt condenses into a solid form in his gut, and he latches on to the first thing he can think of.

“You mentioned Voltron. I’ve heard that name before,” he says, Ulaz’s face flashing to mind and echoing his warnings about Earth. “What is Voltron?”

Na’wal huffs, lifting his head to meet Shiro’s eyes, “A legend. A tale told to pups of a mighty warrior who could free us all from Zarkon. A lie.”

He falls heavily back onto Shiro’s leg, facing away and ending that train of conversation.

Shiro absently raises a hand back to Na’wal’s head to scratch behind his ears, staring off towards the forest and seeing nothing but the desperate hope on Ulaz’s face. The faith. “I’m not so sure,” he murmurs but doesn’t argue further.

Silence settles back in around them, broken only by the wind as it rustles the grass. Shiro’s the one to break it again.

“Will they let me leave?” His hand stills and Na’wal pulls away, sitting up to meet Shiro’s eyes on a level plane.

“I do not know, but we will _not_ allow you to be trapped here.”

Shiro is taken aback by the ferocity of his declaration, and gratitude closes his throat before he swallows it down. “Thank you.”

Na’wal cocks his head, eyes bright and ears facing forward, “It is no more than you did for me. In fact, it is much less, for I am home while you remained a prisoner and a slave. I am indebted to you.”

Shiro shakes his head even before Na’wal finishes talking. “You don’t owe me anything. No one deserves to be a prisoner of the Galra. And I don’t even remember it,” he shrugs. He’s sure it was the right thing to do at the time, whether he remembers it or not. He doesn’t regret it.

“How did you manage to get off-planet for your trip?” he asks, changing the subject.

Na’wal looks away and can’t meet his eyes. “My pack kept a ship hidden. Many packs did. Ours is lost now. The council guards the others, for they could not bear to destroy what had once been a joy of our people.”

Shiro lets the conversation go, sinking back to lie on the ground and think. He’ll have to figure out where the ships are and how heavily they’re guarded if he’s ever going to get off this planet. He cringes internally at the idea, but he’s going to have to steal a ship. He’ll have to find out the information somehow, but he can’t ask Na’wal—he’d get suspicious and Shiro refuses to implicate the pack in his theft. They’ve gone through enough trouble for him.

Na’wal looks down at him, head cocked to the side knowingly, “I would say it is impossible to get past the guards, but I would be a fool to underestimate you, Shiro. I ask that you let my mothers and sister speak again with the council, before any action is taken.”

Shiro’s face heats, but he doesn’t say anything. Na’wal drops his head onto Shiro’s stomach, forcing his breath out in a huff of air. He’s heavier than he looks.

“You are not allowed to go anywhere right now, anyway. Not until you heal. Ma’s orders.”

And, well, Shiro can’t argue against that. He rests his hand on top of Na’wal’s head in reassurance, and Na’wal goes limp, relaxing back into their peaceful afternoon.

Shiro doesn’t stop planning.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s another two days until Natalis removes the bandage from Shiro’s leg. He spends that time with the pack, getting to know them and learning anything he can about possible solutions to the fact he is more or less stranded on Lycaeon.

Natalis and Auvergne give him shrewd looks any time he tries to subtly find out information, so he gives up early and outrights asks what the council is saying. Natalis tells him not to worry and that they’ll figure something out, and Auvergne’s scruff stands on end in irritation while she updates him on the situation with straightforward, no nonsense briefings.

It’s not promising. The council doesn’t want to risk leaving the planet, especially if there are Galra ships in the area looking for Shiro. They’re too afraid to do anything to help Shiro, or to let him help himself.

Bisclavret avoids him, although she does wear the translator collar. She watches him in the distance when he’s with Na’wal or Moeris, standing tall and all her senses pointed towards Shiro. It conveys a quiet threat that Shiro’s meant to see—she’s not trying to hide from him.

Shiro understands, more than she expects—he would be suspicious of any threat to his family, too.

Na’wal is helping but knowing, and he encourages Shiro to let his mothers find a solution. He also offers the most useful information for stealing a ship—he knows Shiro won’t let it go.

It’s Moeris who turns out to be the best source of information. The youngest of the pack is always eager to talk, asking as many questions of Shiro as he asks Moeris. Shiro has no idea what stories Na’wal has told about their time together—he can’t remember enough to begin to guess—but Moeris thinks a lot of him. It fills Shiro with guilt to mislead him, so he’s as up front as he can be while still getting what he needs to know.

Despite all his efforts and the information he manages to get, Shiro doesn’t have a viable plan by the time he’s deemed physically fit.

It’s been four days since he crashed on Lycaeon. It’s been longer since Ulaz helped him to escape the prison ship. The Galra travel fast, and they have a head start. They destroy _worlds_.

Shiiro doesn’t have time to wait for approval to leave, especially when they won’t let him argue for his own cause.

So the day Natalis pronounces him healed, he seizes the chance to spend the morning walking the territory claimed by the pack with Na’wal and Moeris, scouting the area.

His legs burn with the exercise, the most he’s been able to do since the crash, but it’s a good burn. His chest loosens as they hike even as the hair on the back of his neck stands up in a way that lets him know Bisclavret is watching. Moeris and Na’wal alternate between running ahead and behind, play wrestling, and trotting alongside Shiro, unconcerned with their sister’s caution.

Na’wal bounds back and forth, teasing and wagging his tail, trying to get Shiro to join in one of their short races when there’s a sucking _boom_ from above and all three of them freeze. Their attention shoots skyward at the Galra scout ship that has entered the atmosphere and is heading for where Shiro crashed.

Shiro takes off running.

“Shiro!” Na’wal calls, darting after him with Moeris hot on his tail, “What are you doing?” They draw up beside him in seconds. Shiro doesn’t spare them a glance.

“That ship is too small to be an attack. It’s looking for something,” he says. _They found me_ , he thinks. “If they find the crash site but no body, they’ll know you helped me. We have to stop them.”

Silent as a ghost, Bisclavret appears at his side.

“Let us run,” is all she says before she pulls ahead to lead the way, Na’wal and Moeris flanking her in effortless formation. They could easily outstrip Shiro, but they hang back and keep his pace.

Bisclavret howls and it sends a chill down his spine.

A dozen paces later, she does it again, and this time there’s an answering howl.

They run.

As the group approaches the crash site, they slow to a prowl, stalking forward to survey the scene. The Lycaeons are effortlessly silent in their movements, and Shiro does his best to crouch down and blend into the foliage.

The meadow where Shiro crashed is not unlike the one outside the pack’s den, and the ship lies where it landed by the edge of the forest that surrounds it. The Galra ship has already touched down on the opposite side of the clearing by the time they arrive, and there’s a small scouting party heading for the wreckage.

The group is made up of seven Galra soldiers, each armed with a gun, and two robotic sentries remain stationed by the ramp of the ship. It’s impossible to know how many reinforcements are on board.

“My mothers are coming,” Bisclavret tells him, and the collar modulates with her intent to sound like she’s whispering. She looks over at him and meets his eyes steadily, “You may fight with us. Na’wal tells us you are capable. I am trusting you not to endanger my pack.”

It’s a level of trust Shiro didn’t expect and doesn’t deserve, considering it’s his fault the Galra are here. Despite that, he nods grimly and peers back through the trees.

“How do you fight?” The way they fell naturally into a running pattern suggests a coordinated familiarity that Shiro doesn’t want to disrupt. “What’s your plan?”

Bisclavret nods in approval, “We will attack the main group while you prevent the sentries from shooting us from behind and warn us of any reinforcements.” Her gaze softens. “We will not let them take you again.”

A lump forms in Shiro’s throat and he nods. She flicks her ears once and says, “We will strike once you reveal yourself. Do not move until the Galra are at the remains of the ship.”

Shiro nods in acknowledgment and she slips away, Moeris and Na’wal following without a word.

He silently creeps in the other direction, inching closer to the sentries so he has the best advantage in his attack. There’s only so close he can get before he has to risk the open field between them, and he crouches behind a bush nearby.

He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

The Galra scouts reach the wreckage.

Shiro leaps into action, pushing off the ground as he lights up his hand and strikes up at the first sentry from behind.

There’s a warning crackle that pulls his attention for a brief second to his hand before it’s by black lightning, intense pain sparking from the tips of his fingers up through his shoulder. He chokes back a cry of pain and stumbles to his knees, barely catching himself from falling on his face.

Dim lights and purple walls flash before his eyes as the jeering of the crowd fills his ears. His breathing turns ragged and he groans, hand forming into a claw as he grips his wrist in an instinctive reaction. He has to…he’s supposed to be fighting someone. Pain arcs up his arm again and he chokes out a shout.

Someone calls his name in the distance, but everything is muffled like it’s coming from underwater. A high-pitched yelp breaks through the edge of his senses and something _gives_ in his brain, determination sliding into place like a key into a lock.

The world sharpens into focus and sound rushes back in. There are shouts and growls and the firing of laser guns. Shiro narrows his eyes and glares through his fringe at the two sentries aiming their weapons at him and preparing to fire.

They don’t get a chance.

He springs forward, coming in low and carving a line through the first sentry from its right hip to its left shoulder. It falls to pieces behind him as he spins to punch a hole through the others chest. It collapses in a shower of sparks.

He surveys the rest of the clearing.

Despite his botched entrance, the pack was able to catch the Galra contingent off guard, but they didn’t escape unharmed—Na’wal lingers toward the edge of the trees with a still smoking wound on his flank, and Bisclavret inches closer in order to cover his damaged side. Shiro begins to sprint towards them, but Bisclavret snarls in his direction, calling out, “ _Watch for reinforcements.”_

Shiro freezes but listens, angling himself so he can see both the fight and the ramp. It kills him not to engage as Moeris and Bisclavret struggle to compensate and defend Na’wal from further injury.

A near miss singes the fur on Moeris’s back and breaks Shiro’s willpower. He prepares to join the fight when a flash of silver catches his eye. It darts out of the woods on one side of the clearing and a deadly shadow leaps from the other side, viciously tearing the throat from the Galra who tried to shoot Moeris.

Auvergne and Natalis easily assume command of the situation, and the pack falls into a circular prowl around the Galra troops. Panic crawls across the visible portions of the soldiers’ faces, and they back slowly towards each other and away from the Lycaeon threat.

Another group of sentries gathers at the top of the ramp. There are five of them, and Shiro dashes up the ramp to meet them as they descend, ducking the initial volley of fire. He tears into the first one, getting a solid hold and whipping it around to toss at another three, knocking them to the ground.

Shiro turns on the last one standing, easily slicing its head from its body and grabbing its gun from its limp hands. He spins on his heel and shoots the three struggling to their feet. They all fall, a smoking hole in each of their chests. Reinforcements handled, Shiro checks on the pack and the Galra below.

It’s a scene of utter decimation.

The pack has laid waste to the Galra, and blood drips from their muzzles in terrifying display of their prowess. Natalis is heading over to check on Na’wal, who is on his feet and staring up at the ship. He spots Shiro, and his tail gives a brief wag.

The ship hums to life around him, and Na’wal’s ears go flat. Auvergne yips. Shiro lurches forward as the ramp moves, retracting towards the ship.

Panic curdles in his stomach as he darts forward down the ramp, the urgency of _not again_ thrumming through his veins.

The ship starts to rise even as the ramp continues to draw back. Shiro runs. Bisclavret darts toward the ship, but Shiro knows there’s nothing she will be able to do. He focuses on the end of the ramp and his narrowing view of the outside world.

When he’s close enough, he dives. He _cannot_ leave the planet aboard a Galra ship.

He barely makes it, flying through the gap and hitting the ground hard before rolling to a stop. He’s lucky the ship didn’t get any higher than it did—all of Natalis’s work to heal him would have been for nothing.

Shiro raises himself up to an elbow and watches as, with a rush of wind, the Galra ship finishes its lift off and alters course, aiming for atmosphere. Bisclavret and Auvergne arrive to stand by his side and watch.

His heart sinks.

“They’re going to know you helped me,” he says, defeated. “They’re going to know you broke the treaty.”

They can’t deny it and guilt seeps into his bones.

Utter shock replaces it as a wide yellow beam shoots straight into the air and umbrellas open, spreading to cover the visible sky from horizon to horizon and halting the ship in midair. A thinner, faster beam of orange light bursts from the same direction and carves a path through the ship, small explosions following in its wake.

The ship drops like a brick, plummeting towards the ground in front of their stunned eyes. No one moves.

From the direction of the crash, a lone howl cuts through the silence. Soon, more join in, coming from the same direction. Around Shiro, the pack’s ears all perk up, facing the howls. Natalis and Auvergne exchange a loaded glance as the echo of the calls fade.

There’s a beat, and the howls start again, from a different direction this time. Na’wal climbs to his feet, and the tension in the group rises. Shiro sits up.

There’s a message hidden in the pitch and duration of the call, but he can’t understand it. His pack does, and he isn’t surprised when, after the newest chorus fades, Auvergne and Natalis tip their heads back and lead their family in reply.

Something important is happening.

His pack holds that single, unwavering note, drawing goosebumps onto Shiro’s arms. When they trail off, another picks up in the distance. After a few weighted minutes of call and response, silence descends, and the whole planet falls quiet around them.

The sounds of nature are the first to return one the expectation of danger is passed, and Shiro addresses Auvernge, “What does this mean?”

“We are summoned. A Grand Council has been called,” she says, and the gravitas in her voice is unmistakable despite the robotic presentation. Shiro’s spine straightens in response.

It’s time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The pack tries to leave Shiro behind. The idyllic landscape around the den for once doesn’t sooth some of the agitation rippling down his spine as they gather outside the den and tell him why he is not going to the council meeting.

Outsiders are not welcome. He can’t speak the language. They’ll be angry at the presence of the Galra and will blame Shiro.

They’re worried—they don’t want to see Shiro hurt, especially not by their own people, and that worry underlies every argument that they put forth, but Shiro chafes at the restriction. He doesn’t need their protection from this.

He needs their support in taking responsibility for what happened and doing what needs to be done.

“I’ve been sitting back and letting you fight for me for _days_ ,” he says, firmly, “but the Galra found me here. I’ve endangered your entire planet just by being here, and my planet has no idea they’re all in danger, too. I _have_ to convince them to let me go.”

Auvergne sits tense and watchful by the mouth of the cave while Na’wal and Natalis pace agitatedly in front of him. Moeris and Bisclavret remain on the outskirts of the conversation.

“They will not excuse you because you have been a prisoner, Dearheart,” Natalis says. “They will not be kind.” She’s apologetic as she again points out, “You do not know our ways, our language. How will you convince them of anything?”

Shiro flounders. He _has_ to be there. He’s done waiting as others fight his battles. Their reasoning is sound, but he’s not going to accept it as a lost cause. It’s not in him to give up like that.

She is right, though. He can’t understand their language.

“I can wear the collar,” he says, ignoring the ghostly feel of it choking his neck and knowing it only solves half of the problem. The look Natalis gives him is full of pity.

“I will translate for him,” Na’wal says, unexpectedly. Everyone’s attention turns to him, and he presses on, “I can wear a collar and tell Shiro what is being said. And his collar will allow him to speak for himself.”

An uncomfortable silence follows his offer, and it stifles the hope growing in Shiro’s chest. Still, he shoots Na’wal a grateful look, and Na’wal sends a toothy wolf grin back at him.

“It will be seen as a mark of shame,” Bisclavret says, standing and pacing over to join the conversation. “The council already mistrusts you for what they see as a misstep. Why must you draw their attention further, in such a way?”

Na’wal snaps his teeth at her, ears pointed forward, “Because you will not!” He backs down at a subtle movement from Auvergne, but he doesn’t give up. “Because it is right.” He moves to sit stolidly by Shiro’s side, meeting his wide-eyed gaze and saying, “I will translate for you at the council.”

Shiro extends a hand, and Na’wal briefly presses into it before pulling back. Shiro drops his hand and the two of them stay together, a united front. Natalis’s tail swishes in distress.

“It will hurt our cause,” Auvergne says. She pads closer to the small group, “But I believe it is necessary. We have tried for many years to convince them to change their minds, but we have been stagnant for thousands of years. Change is required to promote a larger change. I, too, will wear the collar.”

Natalis whines low in her throat, standing before Shiro as he’s flanked by her wife and son, “I speak only out of worry for our pack, and not out of a lack of faith in you, Shiro. A pack stands united. I am with you.” She presses her nose into the back of his hand, and warmth blossoms in Shiro’s chest.

“Thank you.”

Bisclavret and Moeris fill out their circle, and Bisclavret bares her teeth in a much more threatening display than Na’wal’s grin, her ears facing forward and fierceness in her eyes, “Let us show them that our pack is not to be underestimated.”

In unison, the pack tilt their heads back and howl a long ululating note. Shiro shivers with the power behind it.

There’s a brief pause in the sound, and the Lycaeons all look to Shiro, waiting. Shiro stares back at them, wide-eyed and confused. His gaze lands last on Na’wal, who cocks his head at him and says simply, “Pack.”

The warmth in his chest erupts again and prickles behind his eyes, and he grins as wolfishly as he can at Na’wal, at all of them. Pack.

Na’wal wags his tail once, and the howl begins again. This time, Shiro throws his head back and joins them, that same shiver of power running through his veins and bolstering him for the battle waiting for them at the council.

They can do this together.

The howl fades but his determination doesn’t waver. The Lycaeons head down the slope of their den towards the woods, and Shiro trots in to the den to collect the collar he’ll wear at the council meeting.

It’s lighter than he expects, but it carries a different sort of weight as he stares at it in his hands.

There’s a memory there, dark and full of anxiety, but Shiro takes a deep breathing, centering himself on the scent of now—damp cave, earthy chill, warm fur—and puts it on. When he turns to follow his pack, Na’wal is waiting for him in the entrance, watching him knowingly.

“Come,” he says, “we must run.” He takes off, and Shiro breaks into a jog after him, plunging down the hill and into the woods glowing gold with the afternoon sun. They soon catch up to the rest of the pack waiting for them amongst the trees near the edge of a clearing. Even as Na’wal and Shiro join them, the others make no motion to continue.

Natalis studies Shiro, “Are you ready?”

His pack surrounds him, and he trusts that whatever happens, they will do their best for him.

“Yes.” He strides forward with purpose.

Auvergne stands as he reaches her, barely having to look up to meet his eyes, “We will protect you as best we can.”

He nods and presses on, his pack falling in to flank him as they emerge from the trees into a vast, natural-looking amphitheater. Each level is demarcated with flat stone in a half-circle with two aisles leading down in the form of gentle, grassy slopes. At the bottom is the “stage”, level with the ground and only set apart by the coloration of the white stone compared to the surrounding grass. Behind it is an expansive, shimmering lake so wide Shiro can’t see across to the other side.

Dozens of Lycaeons materialize out of the surrounding forest, appearing between the branches and congregating in their places on each level of the amphitheater.

There have to be at least a hundred already there. Shiro’s heart stutters, but he doesn’t allow it to show on his face. He’s going to need to be seen as strong here.

He blanks his expression, squares his shoulders, and lifts his chin in actions as familiar as slipping on a jacket. False confidence is a well-worn armor that hides his doubts.

_Show no fear_ , he tells himself and follows as his pack descends the hill to their assigned place. On every level, he can see other packs stopping and watching the stranger in the midst of their sacred gathering. He bears up under the weight of their stares and doesn’t let it bow his spine.

His pack stops near the front, a couple of rows back from the central staging area. They file in and sit, looking around imperiously. Shiro hesitates to sit next to them, fully aware of their size difference and how stark it’s going to be when he’s on the ground.

He can’t stand while they all sit, though, so he lowers himself to the ground and fights not to feel small and surrounded. When Na’wal sits beside him and presses in close to his shoulder—it helps. He can steady his breathing, and he glances out across the water in front of them, watching as the wind ripples across the otherwise peaceful surface. That helps, too.

Soon enough, the sounds of the crowd dwindle and die off as two elderly Lycaeons pad softly to the very front and sit on the dais facing the crowd. They have greying fur at their snouts and the corners of their eyes, and their presence is enough to silence all gathered.

Na’wal shifts closer, quietly saying, “Romulas and Sinfotli. They are our leaders. They once had a pack, but they are all grown now, so Romulas and Sinfotli were elected to lead us after the last leaders died. Now, we are all their pack.”

They call the meeting to order, and Na’wal translates everything into his ear.

“We thank you all for coming,” Sinfotli says, “You are wondering why we activated our planetary defenses. We will not hide it.” She pauses, but there is no way to soften the blow. “A Galra ship has attacked us.”

The crowd shifts around them, and a light thrum of noise buzzes throughout the clearing. Sinfotli and Romulas give the news time sink in, and continue.

“Many of you know of our recent visitor,” Romulas says, and many eyes shift to Shiro. He clenches his jaw, “and the subsequent discussions of whether our long retreat from this war has gone on long enough.” Romulas lifts his head high and glances at the gathered crowd, his gaze heavy with authority but empty of judgment. “With this latest attack, we can no longer debate such an important issue with so small a group.”

In unison, Sinfotli and Romulas speak, and utter stillness descends upon the Grand Council, shocking even Na’wal into silence. Loathe to disturb it but more reluctant to be left in the dark, Shiro nudges Na’wal who looks at him with wide eyes. Shiro’s heartrate speeds up.

“They have called for a—“ he rumbles a sound the collar can’t translate, “a vote between all the packs.” Na’wal’s voice is hushed, awed. “The last time a – occurred was when we retreated from the war with the Galra. There has not been one in my lifetime. There has not been one in many lifetimes. They truly mean to decide if we are going to war again—we cannot without the vote.”

Stunned, Shiro stares forward with a new understanding of the magnitude of this gathering—it’s not about the Galra ship or his presence. It’s about reentering a millennia-long war.

It’s huge.

He swallows thickly.

“You mean for us to join a war that nearly wiped out our people?” A harsh growl comes from the right where a Lycaeon with bristling fur sits. Na’wal says his name is Vukodlak as he reluctantly translates his angry exclamations. “The war that wiped out the Alteans?”

There are noises of agreement as Vukodlak voices what many are thinking. Sinfotli stares back, distinctly unruffled in the face of his outrage.

“No,” she says. “I mean for us to discuss it, and for our people to decide.” She looks out over the crowd. “Many years ago, our packs chose to retreat in order to save Lycaeon. It was not a decision with which everyone agreed, but it was one that preserved us. Leaders have come and gone, and much has changed. We are a new generation, and we must decide for ourselves what our actions in this war will be.”

“Much has changed?” Vukodlak spits, “Yes, much _has_ changed. The Galra grow stronger, not weaker. Their Empire has spread. We could not defeat them then—and now the Alteans are all gone. _Voltron_ is gone. What chance do we have?” He looks around at the gathered Lycaeons. “We are safe here. Why bring war back?”

“Are we safe here?” another Lycaeon—Lusion, Na’wal supplies—wonders loudly. “We have been attacked by a Galra ship. They have injured one of our own.”

“Because of Natalis and Auvergne’s pet!” Vukodlak exclaims, drawing Shiro’s pack to their feet with bristling fur and bared teeth.

“Because we protected a prisoner who had done nothing wrong to suffer what the Galra did to him!” Natalis growls, words translated simultaneously by the collar without need for Na’wal’s reluctant interpretation. Vukodlak eyes the technology with contempt.

“On whose word do you know that? His? Perhaps _he_ is not the pet after all.” His eyes remain fixed on the collar. “You shame us all.”

Moeris snarls and lunges at him, stopped short as Bisclavret steps in the way, fur standing on end even as she whispers, “No. That will not help. This is a battle of words.”

“Is it shameful to allow one whom will be affected by this decision to understand how it came to be?” Auvergne asks, cold and superior in all ways. “Shiro has shown himself a good man, desiring only to get home to warn his own people of an attack but not hesitating to help those he can along the way. Is he not worthy of having a voice in this council?”

“He protected himself from recapture,” Vukodlak shoots back. “How do we know he is not a criminal?”

“He saved my life!” Na’wal exclaims, unable to help himself. “In the Galra prisons, Shiro did all he could for the other prisoners. We were all innocent, only guilty of not being Galra! They enslave those who do not agree with them and send them to die. It is shameful to stand by and do nothing like cowards. Shiro showed me that.”

Shiro’s gut clenches at the admiration in Na’wal’s words. He doesn’t know what he did to inspire such belief, and he can’t quite believe it’s deserved but Na’wal defending him so passionately makes him desperate to understand.

“Were you not committing a crime against your own people when you were captured?” Vukodlak points out snidely. Na’wal subsides, cowed.

“The crime of giving into our very nature,” Lusion says wryly. He addresses the crowd at large. “We are explorers, ambassadors, meant to travel the universe to learn new things and not to stay on our planet like a pup in a den. We return home, yes, but we are meant to roam. Else we remain just as blind as the pup.”

A general, restless shifting stirs through those gathered at his words and hope swells before Vukodlak opens his mouth again.

“We are also pack. We attack as a group,” he says. “Our allies are gone—dead, like the Alteans, or conquered. With whom, then, do we fight?”

There’s a resounding, damning silence.

Bisclavret slices through it before it has time to gain too much of a hold, “The Blade of Marmora.”

Shiro looks at her sharply, but she doesn’t look back. Does she know what that means?

Vukodlak laughs. “That legend? Fiction. If there were any Galra fighting Zarkon, they would be dead by now. The Blade of Marmora was a long dead myth even before the war.”

“One of them helped Shiro,” Auvergne says.

“Someone who believes he is a hero that he is not,” Vukodlak dismisses. “Crazy.”

At that, Shiro can’t hold himself back any longer, surging to his feet and heatedly exclaiming, “Ulaz _saved_ me.” Vukodlak growls in response.

“And now he dares to speak at our council!” he snarls, baring his teeth at Shiro. Shiro fights not to bare his teeth right back. Auvergne brushes against his hand, and Bisclavret subtly shifts to stand between Vukodlak and Shiro.

“This affects him as much as it does us,” Natalis says. “He has a right to speak.”

An uproar of yips and yelps erupts around the amphitheater, Lycaeons getting to their feet and sharing their opinion at the same time. Shiro’s skin itches at all the teeth and aggression on display, but he doesn’t let it show. He stands tall and fixes his gaze on Sinfotli and Romulas, surprised to find them looking back at him.

Studying him.

He clenches his jaw and holds their gaze. He isn’t going to back down.

Sinfotli’s small nod nearly knocks him off his feet, and she stands to howl briefly. The crowd quiets and listens.

“We will allow him to speak,” Romulas says. He meets Shiro’s eyes and faith radiates from his expression.

Gratitude swells warm in Shiro’s chest as Na’wal provides the translation for him, and appreciation softens his face before determination steels his gaze.

He faces the assembled council and gathers the words he wants to say—the ones he needs to say.

So much rides on what he does here.

“I didn’t mean to bring the Galra to your planet. I didn’t mean to bring the war back to Lycaeon.” Fervor fills his words as he continues, passion bleeding through even as it’s filtered through the collar’s technology. “I wanted to get home to my own planet, to warn them. The Galra are coming for them, and they have no idea. They have no idea that aliens _exist_ , let alone that they’re bringing a war. But they will fight, because they don’t have a choice. _Thousands_ of planets haven’t had a choice—they either fight back, or the Galra destroy them.”

Hundreds of eyes are trained on him as he speaks, an entire amphitheater considering his words.

“You have a choice. The Galra don’t want you to fight because they’re _afraid_ of you—and they should be! I’ve seen how you can fight—your ferocity, your loyalty, your intelligence, your kindness. These are all things Zarkon fears! So you can continue to hide, or you can join the Blade of Marmora and fight!”

His tone grows quieter but it carries no less intensity as he continues, “Zarkon is looking for Voltron. He thinks he’s found the Blue Lion,” it’s a calculate gamble that the two are related, but the way everyone has talked about them… “He won’t leave you alone forever. And only you can decide how long you want to put off that inevitability.”

He doesn’t say that if they don’t fight now, if they wait until Zarkon remembers them and the threat they pose, it will be the day every possible ally is gone. The Galra will return and they will wipe of Lycaeon.

They know that, and Shiro can’t force them into a war that has already taken so much from them, nad that seems hopeless.

But he can’t give up either. He lifts his hands in supplication, “The least I am asking for is that you lend me a ship so I can get home and try to stop them. The Galra destroy worlds. I won’t let them destroy mine.”

He casts one last determined glance at all of them, as if he will be able to convince them through sheer force of will alone, and takes his seat again by Na’wal’s side.

Silence drags out after his speech, and Shiro tries not to read too much into it.

Finally, Sinfotli rises and asks, “Is there anyone else who would make their opinion heard?”

No one, not even Vukodlak, makes a comment.

Romulas stands beside Sinfotli, “We call for a vote.”

Together, they retreat off the dais and melt back into the trees, signaling for the packs around Shiro to get to their feet.

“What happens next?” Shiro asks, pushing himself up.

“We vote,” Bisclavret says, padding over. “Each pack votes as a unit. When it is a full vote like this, it takes place in our sacred space. There is an order.” She gives him a sympathetic look, reading his impatience. “We will learn the verdict tomorrow, likely.”

Shiro shoves down the restless itch and forces a smile, “Guess we’re going to have to wait.” He can’t complain—they included him in their conclave, let him speak. As much as he wants to take a ship and go, he has to respect them and their traditions.

This vote is much bigger than Earth.

There’s a soft snuffling sound behind him, and Shiro turns in surprise to find Lusion politely waiting. The Lycaeon sits as soon as he has Shiro’s attention, cocking his head to the side. Shiro stares blankly, unsure what that means but sensing it’s significant and that Lusion is expecting something.

Na’wal gives a snort and explains, “He is asking permission to touch you.” Shiro’s jaw nearly drops in shock and confusion, but he manages to catch it. Barely. “Just a hand will do,” Na’wal clarifies with a laugh hiding in his voice.

Shiro would be suspicious that Na’wal is messing with him, but he remembers his first meeting with Moeris and suspects where this is going. He extends his left hand for Lusion to press into with the slightest touch of his nose.

The Lycaeon pulls back and, with a shake of his head and bone-deep cracking, he transforms into a human, bright grin on his face.

“That was a nice speech you gave,” Lusion says, rising to his feet easily, like he hadn’t recently had four. “I do not think you need to worry about your votes.”

Shiro takes in the number of packs watching them, humbled by the impressive—and highly visible—show of support Lusion has just made for him.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” he says, looking up to meet Lusion’s sparkling brown eyes. “I’m Shiro.” He extends his right hand in greeting, intending to make a proper introduction to this new ally. Lusion stares at the proffered hand and furrows his brow before his face clears and he enthusiastically grabs Shiro’s wrist in a warrior’s grip.

“I had forgotten,” he says, grasp firm and expression warm, “I look forward to remembering, and to learning more about you and your people, Shiro.”

It’s impossible to articulate the simultaneous swell of gratitude and fear Lusion’s trust triggers, and all Shiro can say is an insufficient but genuine, “Thank you.”

With another nod of approval, Lusion steps back and falls effortlessly into his natural form, loping away into the woods.

Many watch him go before they return their stares to Shiro.

Slowly, the scrutiny crawls under his skin, the weight of their eyes encouraging the shape of the amphitheater to nudge at the dark corners of his mind. A strong breeze chases the memory away, but Shiro shivers in its wake.

Bisclavret must notice, because she herds Moeris over from where he is speaking with another pack.

“Come. Our mothers know our vote. There is nothing more for us to do tonight. Let us return home.”

None of them argue, and considering stares follow them out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s a night of interrupted sleep and anxiety, and Shiro might as well have stayed up all night for how rested he is as they head back to the amphitheater. Tension is thick in the air as they wait for the verdict, and Romulas and Sinfotli don’t keep them in suspense long.

Shock and hope collide within Shiro when he notices they are wearing translator collars.

With serious eyes and a straight posture, Romulas announces, “We are going back to war.”

White noise rings in Shiro’s ears as blood pounds through his head in an overwhelming rush of relief. He can go home.

A flurry of activity and planning follows the initial moment of processing, with a war council assembled and warriors summoned to train and prepare in no time at all. They won’t be ready to fight for a while, having been planet-bound for so long, but they agree a scout ship should be sent out to find the Blade of Marmora and establish allies.

First, it will deliver Shiro to Earth, and he will be back for the first time in who knows how long.

Meanwhile, the rest of the planet will prepare—weapons, training, ships. The skills have been passed down for generations, even if they’ve been put to little use in their years—centuries—of relative peace. It will take time, but they will be battle-ready soon enough.

Shiro won’t be here for any of it.

Soon enough, he stands in front of a Lycaeon ship gleaming in the sun. It is small and swift, meant for rapid and stealthy travel, and Shiro stares up at it as his pack gathers around him.

It’s harder than he would have expected to say goodbye, but it’s the least he can give them for all they’ve done.

He clears his throat, but his heart is lodged in it pretty firmly, so he speaks around it in a thick voice. “I can’t begin to tell you how much everything you’ve done means to me, or how much you all mean to me.” Natalis and Moeris are staying with their home planetary defenses while Auvergne and Bisclavret are on the war council that will eventually follow their scouts into space. Na’wal is coming with Shiro.

He may never see the rest of them again.

“Shiro,” Natalis admonishes lightly, “thanks are not necessary.” Shiro disagrees, because he owes them so much more than he can say. He’s felt _safe_ with them, which is something he never imagined he could feel after all of this. He nods anyway and kneels down to wrap each of them in a hug.

Auvergne pulls out of his embrace far enough so she can turn her head to nudge his cheek with her nose, “May we meet again, Shiro.”

He rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, “May we meet again.” He tightens his grip on the back of her neck, and then he lets go.

He steps away and that’s it.

He and Na’wal climb the ramp to one of the few functioning ships on Lycaeon to join their scout crew. They’re the last to arrive, and the ramp closes behind them once they’re aboard. Shiro can’t look back to his pack if he tries.

He breathes out and looks around. Pauses. Looks around again, more slowly.

The inside of the ship is not what he expected it to be. It’s roomy and comfortable and high-tech, of course, but it is clearly designed to be handled by bipeds.

Na’wal explains, “Many of our allies are bipedal. To be able to work together seamlessly, it was easiest to cater to that anatomy in our designs.” He pauses, taking the chance to shift to his human form, and grins at Shiro, waving his hands through the air. “Plus, thumbs,” he laughs.

Shiro grins back at him, “Makes sense.”

The rest of the Lycaeons around them have shifted as well, all garbed in a tight purple and black uniform stretched across a variety of forms. He recognizes Lusion in his human form, but the rest are a stunning array of aliens based on who they’ve interacted with during their illicit field trips—sneaking off planet is apparently something of a rite of passage now, and all the warriors Shiro has met have done it.

As it is, there’s a wide range of skin, fur, scales, and feathers with varying numbers of limbs but a common theme of upright with functional hands (or tentacles, in one case).

There are fifteen of them all together, a friendly, jovial bunch, and the ship is filled with easy camaraderie, jokes, and laughter. Despite Shiro’s enjoyment of it, nothing quite eases the tension riding high in his shoulders as they set a course for Earth. It lives in his chest, an endless pull like a compass to true North.

The further they travel, the stronger it grows, niggling at his mind.

The second night of their journey, Shiro falls so deeply asleep that dreams can’t reach him only to be shocked into waking with his heart hammering in his chest.

They need to go _now_.

He rolls out of the bunk, hitting the floor hard and running a second later. He skids down the hallway, waking the rest of the crew in their various rooms, but he’s gone by the time they poke their heads out the door to see what’s happening.

It’s both moments and an eternity before he bursts onto the bridge. “We have to stop!” he exclaims, breathing heavier than he should be.

He’s met by startled glances, and Lusion rises to his feet in concern.

“Shiro?”

Shiro looks wild—his eyes are wide and his face flushed, and he’s rumpled in a way he never allows himself to be, and he can’t explain, not fully. He just knows, and he trusts it.

“We have to change course. There’s a planet nearby that needs our help.” It’s all he knows.

The crew on the bridge exchange skeptical glances.

Lusion is the one to ask, “What about Earth?”

It’s a fair question but… “This is more important.” He says it firmly, sure.

The rest of the crew crowds in behind him, nearly silent in their wolf-like forms. Lusion’s expression is wry in the face of Shiro’s vague answers, “What is ‘this’?” He’s willing to listen, at least.

Except Shiro has nothing to tell him. “I don’t know. I just know it’s important.” He throws his hands up in frustration. “It’s like something’s calling me there.”

Lusion exchanges a look with someone behind Shiro, and Na’wal places a hand on his shoulder, moving to stand by his side with kind eyes.

“Shiro, what if it is the Galra,” he asks softly.

“It’s not.” Shiro doesn’t hesitate. _She’s_ not.

Na’wal’s eyes flicker to his arm—his Galra arm. “You are sure?”

Shiro doesn’t want to think about all the ways the Galra have messed with his head and changed his being, but this—whatever this is—isn’t theirs.

“I’m sure.”

Unease and hesitation linger in the air as Lusion and Na’wal exchange another look, but Shiro is confident they need to do this. This planet is important.

Lusion nods, “Let’s set a new course.” He faces the viewport and pulls up the map. There is only one possible planet in the area. “To Arus.”

Shiro stays on the bridge, energy thrumming through him as the ship alters course and a planet slides slowly into view. It’s blue and green and reminds him of Earth, but there’s nothing obviously special about it. It’s no different than many of the other planets they’ve passed.

The planet remains unremarkable as they approach, and a few of the crew cast doubtful glances in Shiro’s direction, but he ignores them.

Once they descend through the cloud cover, everything changes. A castle sits on the edge of a cliff, encased in a blue shield like a bubble as a Galra ship launches an attack on it. Four mechanical lions swarm the ship, protecting the castle and struggling to hold their own.

Then—a flash, a jolt, _something_ is inside Shiro’s head, apologetic for the intrusion but desperate. _Help them._ It’s not a violation, like with— _Haggar_. This not-quite-a-voice in his head is familiar, somehow.

“We have to help them,” Shiro says, and gratitude fills his mind. He shakes his head at the depth of the feeling; he would have wanted to help anyway. Warm affection blooms across his thoughts.

“Already on it,” Lusion says, sending the ship darting forward into the fray. “Everyone hold on!” he says over the ship’s intercoms, warning the crew not on the bridge.

“We cannot let them recognize us,” someone shouts, “We need to take them out before they broadcast the image of our ship to Zarkon. Lycaeon is not ready yet.”

“Then we will have to win this quickly,” Lusion replies, a grim smirk on his face, “Those are the Voltron Lions they’re fighting. We cannot afford to let them be taken by the Galra.”

Silence follows his pronouncement before steady determination fills everyone’s faces, hands tightening around controls.

Shiro stares at one Lion in particular and it’s like he’s been slapped. The Lion is blue.

He doesn’t have time to parse out what that could mean for Earth before the Lions notice them. Which is, of course, when they get trapped in a tractor beam while the Galra continue to lay heavy fire down on the castle.

“Someone see if you can hail that castle!” Lusion orders, refocusing their aim at the bottom of the ship where the Lions are being pulled in. “Fire, now!”

They unleash a rain of laser fire, explosions blossoming under the ship where they hit. The beam flickers and dies, and the Lions are quick to scatter.

The Galra turn their attention to the Lycaeons. With the skill of a rogue pilot whose talents were born of stealing ships from a planet on lockdown, Lusion weaves in and out of Galra fire, drawing attention at key moments and giving the Lions openings to attack.

Except they don’t. Only the Red Lion consistently notices the openings, and the Blue Lion is grasping their teamwork better than the others, but it’s almost like this is their first time flying.

Shiro’s eyebrows rise in skeptical surprise. This is Voltron?

Despite the apparent inexperience of the Voltron pilots, the fight doesn’t last much longer, especially under the steady barrage of Lusion’s skill.

It’s only after the battle ends, when all four Lions are facing their ship as it hangs in the sky, that the castle answers their hail.

“Come in, Lycaeon vessel, can you hear me?” A woman’s accented voice comes over the system, the video flickering to life on their viewscreen. Unsettledness ripples across the bridge and the crew shifts uncomfortably at the easy recognition of their craft, but the feeling quickly morphs into shock when the picture clears enough to see the speaker.

Silence reigns over the bridge, and even Lusion has had his voice stolen in sheer disbelief. Shiro tenses, and waits on edge for the reason to become clear—she’s beautiful and younger than expected, but this is extreme.

“You’re Altean!” blurts Ilian, one of the younger Lycaeons, and it clicks. Shiro’s mind races with the possibilities the others must have instantly realized. Altea was destroyed, and that obliteration of their allied planet helped influence the retreat of Lycaeon from the rest of the universe. But if Altea was destroyed, how is an Altean still alive?

“I am Princess Allura of Altea,” she says, and it’s easy to imagine a crown on her head and a planet following her lead. A planet that may or may not exist, “and these are the Lions of Voltron.”

There’s murmuring across the bridge. Lusion coughs, disguising his disbelief.

“Princess Allura? But how?” he asks.

Her head sinks minutely under the weight of her grief, but she doesn’t let it bow her spine, “My father hid me away in the Castle of Lions with the Black Lion before Altea was destroyed.”

The four Lions hover in sight off to the side of their ship. None of them are black.

“Forgive me, but has the Black Lion been captured? Should we have been more careful in the destruction of that ship?” Lusion asks, and there is alarm now in his tone.

Allura shakes her head and pink colors her cheeks, “No. The Black Lion has not yet accepted a Paladin. We thought perhaps…” she cuts herself off and shakes her head, “But no matter. Perhaps she will accept one of you, though you should meet our other Paladins first. Come to the Castle. Coran will lower the barrier for you.”

Allura disappears from the screen and the shield around the Castle winks out of existence. They follow the Lions to the Castle, separating as the pilots direct them to their own hangers and Lusion aims to land in front of the Castle.

From the ground, it looms impossibly huge over their ship. Na’wal leans in close to Shiro as they head down the ramp, gazing up at the structure, “It is amazing. I never thought I would see a Castleship in my life.”

Shiro studies it with renewed interest, “That’s a _ship_?”

Na’wal laughs and shifts to his Lycaeon form. Around them, the rest of the crew is falling forward to land on four paws, shaking quickly from snout to tail as they resettle back into their own skin. It leaves Shiro as the obvious one out, a lone human amidst a pack of wolves.

He doesn’t need to hide, but it leaves him feeling exposed.

Large doors open to reveal the Altean princess and another Altean by her side, an older man who greets them warmly and introduces himself as Coran. The Alteans glance sidelong at Shiro, taking in his outfit then his ears with a question in their expressions, but they allow Lusion to take the lead in introducing their crew.

“And this is Na’wal’s pack brother,” Lusion finishes, and Shiro’s gut tugs to hear someone outside of his pack say it, “Shiro, originally of Earth.”

“Earth?” Allura’s polite smile drops with her jaw in shock before she recovers. Shiro’s surprised she’s heard of Earth, but if they have the Blue Lion, maybe she’s been there.

“I was a prisoner of the Galra for—“ he cuts himself off, lost. He doesn’t know how long he was their prisoner. “—some time. I escaped with help,” Ulaz and the Blade of Marmora are a conversation of their own,” and got lost trying to get back to Earth.”

If Allura has a reaction to his story, she doesn’t show it beyond a softening in her eyes, and Coran steals his focus, gesturing for the group to follow as he leads them through the Castleship. It’s almost familiar, although Shiro can’t explain why, and he has a strong urge to turn down different hallways instead of trailing after Allura and Coran.

Coran explains the ship as they walk, and Shiro’s listening with only half his attention, busy examining the high ceilings and peering down the multiple hallways, trying to pin down the familiarity. His mind slams back into his body when, in the midst of an anecdote about the Altean who recorded the voice for the defense system, Coran mentions, “The other Paladins are also from Earth.”

Shock sings through him. _Matt? Commander Holt?_ His first wild thoughts spin to his lost crew before _four_ sinks in, which means it can’t be them.

Can it?

“Who?” he chokes out. He might not know them. But then, _he might know them_.

“They should be right here!” Coran says with a wide smile, oblivious to Shiro’s internal turmoil and gesturing for them to enter the bridge. Shiro steels himself for whatever disappointment waits for him inside, but his heart flutters in hope anyway.

He doesn’t recognize the first two, and his heart starts to sink before he sees _Matt_. Only it’s not Matt, and he’s glad he didn’t say it out loud because the one in green isn’t Matt, she’s not a boy at all. He freezes, looking closer. She’s _Katie_. Matt’s little sister is in space in a giant Lion and Matt is going to freak out when they find him.

“Shiro?” A soft, hopeful voice—a familiar voice—breaks through the maelstrom in Shiro’s head, and the last Paladin, dressed in red and hesitant at the edge of the group, steps forward.

“Keith,” he breathes, affection and joy and relief mixing together in a soft tone.

And then they’re across the bridge and hugging and Shiro is reluctant to let go.

“You’re here,” Keith murmurs into his shoulder, and Shiro almost laughs because _Keith_ being here is the more unlikely scenario, but Keith’s next words steal Shiro’s laughter, “You’re alive.”

He tightens his hold before he pulls back to see Keith’s face, leaving his hands on his shoulders. “How long?”

Keith won’t meet his eyes as he mutters, “A year,” and Shiro wants to wrap him back up in his arms, but the others are all watching them now. He settles for squeezing his shoulders before drawing away.

He doesn’t go far.

Keith catches the others looking and flushes. “Uh, Shiro, this is Lance, Hunk, and Pidge.” Shiro doesn’t show his surprise at Katie’s introduction, and she raises her chin and sets her jaw. It’s impossible to tell if she knows he recognizes her.

“Shiro,” he says, holding out his hand. Keith’s breath catches beside him, Hunk stares, and Lance hesitates at the sight of it. Shiro’s face remains friendly as his gut goes cold, but before he can retract his hand, Lance grabs it, face lighting up with a smile.

“You were a legend at the Garrison,” he enthuses, and warmth creeps up Shiro’s neck.

“Are those _wolves_?” Hunk blurts out, staring behind Keith with horror written across his face.

The fact Lusion, Na’wal, or even Quil don’t transform to mess with them is a testament to how seriously they are taking their mission. Instead, they approach with an aura of dignity, and Shiro introduces them all, hiding his quiet amusement.

“They were getting me home to the Garrison,” he explains, “so we could find the Blue Lion and warn them about the Galra.” He smile turns wry, “I guess you guys didn’t need any help.”

They exchange a _look_ , and Pidge says, “We probably could have used a little help.”

Keith and Lance frown at her, catch the other frowning at her, and frown at each other. Shiro raises his eyebrows.

“What did you plan to do after returning Shiro to Earth?” Allura asks, and Lusion takes over, the conversation turning to strategy.

Shiro should pay attention, but the tugging at his mind is back and more distracting than ever. It rumbled with pleasure when he met the Paladins, and it has settled into a quiet, insistent hum at the back of his mind. He glances around, like the source is waiting to leap out of a corner and reveal itself, but while it’s close, it’s not on the bridge.

Instead, he catches Allura watching him again, her expression inscrutable.

“What?” he says, apologetic. He must have missed a question.

“We were beginning to discuss the Blade of Marmora,” Lusion says, giving Shiro a concerned look. Shiro subtly shakes his head. He’s fine. Lusion projects his doubt at Shiro, but face Allura and Coran again, “They are a Galra rebel group.”

Allura tears her eyes away from Shiro. “What?” she snaps. “No. The Galra are not to be trusted.”

Shiro bristles, and that’s how he gets into a fight with an alien princess he just met.

In the end, the argument isn’t fully resolves, but Allura agrees to try to find the base. Satisfaction at the minor victory trills through him, and he acquiesces to her hesitation as long as she at least considers meeting with them. He nods in respect to her authority, and surprise flares when she mirrors the action.

Afterwards, the two groups mingle, eager to interact with these new aliens. Hunk is wary at first of the massive predators, but with some jostling by Lance, he’s soon laughing at Lance with Quil.

Shiro takes the chance to retreat to a quiet corner with Keith to catch up, fully intending to introduce him to his alien brother after they’ve had some time to themselves. Away from the noise and distractions, he finds that he can’t concentrate, and no matter how hard he focuses on Keith’s words, that strange calling claims his attention.

Luckily, Keith interprets it as exhaustion, and Allura offers them all rooms in the Castle. The Lycaeons prefer to sleep outside and pile together in fluffy lumps around their ship, but Shiro gratefully accepts a bed.

According to Keith, it’s been over a year, so it explains why being back in a bed is strange and too soft. It’s too comfortable to be comfortable.

He considers pulling the pillows and blankets onto the floor, but the bed isn’t what’s keeping him from sleep. The call is the loudest it has ever been, an insistent tugging that says _I want to meet you_. He turns it over in his mind, examining the thought until curiosity drives him out of bed.

He has to find it.

Her.

The hallways are empty when he opens the door, late enough that everyone else should be sleeping and eerie in the light blue glow lining the walls.

Shiro has no idea where he is going, but at the same time he knows the way. He lets his feet lead him through the dark, cavernous halls, the concept of time fading into unimportance as he wanders the Castle.

He stops at the foot of a large, grandiose staircase.

The call goes quiet.

Shiro’s gaze travels up, up, up and he’s rarely felt so small, dwarfed by the stairs and the looming black of a massive open door. The floor lights up beyond it, illuminating a Lion that is so much more than Shiro can describe. His lips part and his eyes go wide as wonder fills him.

She’s scratched and worn and _beautiful._ Easily larger than the other Lions, she sits as it she’s waiting for something, silent and dark. Quiet. Sad.

Shiro’s heartbeat quickens and her eyes glow gold.

He’s halfway up the stairs before he registers climbing, and he should be concerned about how often he’s forgotten himself since he came here, but he trusts her. He recognizes her.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, she’s waiting for him with her head resting on the ground in a clear display of trust. She could still crush him in an instant, but he’s not afraid. He raises and hand and reaches out, closing his eyes against the brightening glow of her own until she’s there, with him, in his head.

When he smiles, it’s soft and just for them. “I’m Shiro—Takashi,” he says.

Amusement whispers through him. _I know_. Flashes of him flying by Arus in the Galra pod, of him tutoring at the Garrison, demonstrating the simulator, flying with Keith, eating dinner at the Holts. _I know you_. It’s—the others. She’s showing him their memories of him, things he didn’t know. He’d had no idea.

Under it all, there’s an ache of pain and loneliness, of responsibility. It burrows all the way down to Shiro’s bones where it finds its match. _I know you_.

He knows her, is what she doesn’t say.

She opens her jaw for Shiro to climb in, and he doesn’t hesitate. Sitting in the cockpit is right, and he cracks a smile as he takes it all in.

It looks like he’s going to be away from Earth for a little while longer. He closes his eyes and breathes into his new bond with Black as he allows joint purpose to fill him.

Defenders of the Universe, huh? He likes the sound of that.  

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all she wrote. I hope you liked it. I really enjoyed writing it, and I fell in love with my OC's, which was a lot of fun. I hope you liked them, too. 
> 
> If you're asking yourself, "Did Caroline want to write this because she watched The Jungle Book and thought 'I want Shiro to get adopted by a wolf pack'?" the answer is yes. Yes I did. Shiro should have all the dogs, of every kind. 
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](thehouseofthebrave.tumblr.com), like always, and please comment! Constructive criticism is great, pointing out where spelling mistakes are so I can fix them is embarrassing but super appreciated, and nice words make my heart explode and all my insides turn to the most wonderful goo.


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